


Glimmer

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Sex Workers, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Beelzebub is a badass with a riding crop, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Typical Alcohol Consumption, Derogatory Language to Sex Workers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gabriel is Awful, God likes to watch, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, I wasted my teens learning Regency cant, I wrote this for me but you can all read it, I'm in a grim place workwise rn and this is my therapy, If you've seen Harlots I'm going for that, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Past Rape/Non-con, Period Typical Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining while fucking, Satan is awful, Smut, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism, and more smut, and without the benefit of Samantha Morton's boobs, but 40 years later, he did creepy so well though, my apologies to Paul Chahidi, obviously, that may just be my brand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Employed by rival brothels in London's demi-monde, both Aziraphale and Crowley are instructed to win the affections of the Duke of Godalming and all the political influence for their employers that comes with it.Winning means prestige and security. It also means the ruin and damnation of their best friend.The answer: betray their employers and offer both of themselves to the Duke. Together.Obviously.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens), Crowley/Aziraphale/God, Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 63
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Embers

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle reader,  
> This is darker than my usual fare. After a lot of debate with other writers and myself I have not used the archive warning tag for non con because although it is present, it is never described explicitly.  
> Please do be advised though, that it is very much there throughout. This is a fic about sex work in a period when consent was not a thing typically discussed or considered, and where, although it could be an active choice, in many cases sex workers were indentured to their employers and working in order to pay off their food, lodging and clothing which was provided upfront when they joined a house.  
> Many of them did so because they were tricked into it.  
> I’m going to put notes in the chapter endnotes with specific cw, and do feel free to contact me if you still want to read but need more info. ([Tawnyontumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tawnyontumblr))  
> Also, because it’s not exactly a spoiler, given the summary, the Aziraphale/Crowley/God tag is for chapter 5 with Aziraphale and Crowley having sex and God watching. That's the majority of the mild dubcon, because although it is an active choice, it's born from a situation they had no choice in to begin with.  
> Also, please, please, if you do read and find something that should be tagged that has been missed, let me know and I will update as soon as I can. 
> 
> I needed a lot of handholding.  
> Thankyou to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap)  
> for betaing and cheerleading. You are a star.  
> Thankyou to [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau)  
> and  
> [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon)  
> for all the love and encouragement  
> Also [redundant_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundant_angel/pseuds/redundant_angel)  
> and  
> [CousinSerena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinSerena/pseuds/CousinSerena)  
> for putting up with my smut spamming and making the beginning so much better.  
> Lastly, [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja)  
> for writing the gorgeous offering that is  
> [Blow Out All the Candles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175919/chapters/69041640)  
> and making me remember how badly I wanted to write a Regency Romance and an Aziraphale sex worker au, and inadvertently planting the idea that one fic could be both. Please don't blame any of these people though. This sin is all my own. 
> 
> That's a lot. Thank you for your patience if you made it this far.

**_I can see no way, I can see no way_ **

**_And all of the ghouls come out to play_ **

Florence and the Machine

Breakfast in the house on Golden Square was a delicate affair. The inhabitants normally began to trickle in by noon, moving silently through last night's debris and being careful with the flat ware lest the master of the house was suffering the ill effects of an over indulgence. 

The goal was, at least for Aziraphale, to be in and out of the breakfast room as early and efficiently as possible to avoid the master of the house altogether. 

He was shocked into speechlessness, therefore, to find the whole motley family not only awake, but with Gabriel in his chair, a smile on his face that was more offensively bright than the sun trying to sneak in through the still drawn curtains. 

"There he is!" Gabriel boomed. "The man of the hour!" 

Michael, her head cradled in one hand, glared up at Aziraphale over her morning chocolate. Uriel glowered around a mouthful of kidney. 

Aziraphale made himself smile and wished he'd taken the time to get properly dressed rather than sneaking downstairs in his _deshabille_. 

He forced himself to focus on the events of the night before. Had there been a wrong step? An indiscreet word? Had he seemed less than engaging? Certainly, his lordship had been pleased enough to finish in a timely manner. 

"Sit down!" Gabriel gestured to the chair on his right hand side. 

Michael's chair.

Oh dear. 

Had the viscount grown tired of her? 

Aziraphale edged his way into the seat that was as perilous as it was privileged. He'd always been a favourite of Gabriel's, but Aziraphale had never deluded himself that it was to do with his talent, or beauty, and more that he was the only molly Gabriel ran out of Golden Square. His presence was both a convenience for Gabriel's desire to have something on hand for everyone's fancy, including his own when the mood took him. As such, Aziraphale didn't often work the open salons like the rest of the girls, but was normally hired out on private contracts as and when Gabriel needed the good will of a peer with the most particular tastes. 

To be honoured like this was truly terrifying. 

"Sandalphon, get the man of the hour some kippers!"

Aziraphale did not want kippers. He especially did not want Sandalphon to surface from whatever shadowed corner he'd been dwelling in and come anywhere near him. 

"I can serve myself, really…" Aziraphale protested. 

"No trouble." Sandalphon's gold tooth flashed menacingly in the half light. "Not on such a salubrious occasion."

As usual, everyone knew what was happening except him. 

Aziraphale tugged the neck of his robe closer together. "So what's the happy occasion?" 

Gabriel's beam was luminous. "We have a new Duke of Godalming."

Ah. 

The old Duke had been a stalwart supporter of the Society for the Preservation of Manners. His oldest son had fled to the continent after a scandal involving something titillating involving his valet. No one had ever quite got to the bottom of it, although presumably His Grace _had._

Six years later and whatever it had been was now clearly considered less important than the family line. 

"And it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young peer recently come into his inheritance must be in want of a mistress," Aziraphale muttered into his tea. 

"Exactly!" said Gabriel, who did not read popular novels. 

"Should we not solicit the opinions of His Grace on this?" Aziraphale tried. 

"We will certainly solicit him." Gabriel said. "And before those devils in Piccadilly get their fangs out."

Of course. This was less about the Duke and more about an opportunity for Gabriel to triumph over his rival, Lord Beelzebub of the Pandemonium Club. 

It would be Crowley, wouldn't it? If Pandemonium put anyone forward for the Duke's attentions, it would be him, their rising star. 

Aziraphale's teacup clattered as he placed it back on the saucer. 

Not that Crowley was better than him. But he was striking, different. Intriguing. Aziraphale didn't like the way his stomach knotted with anticipation at the thought of the redhead. Or how much he enjoyed the evenings they were rolled out to the same events. 

He was already unsettled when a plate of kippers was shoved beneath his nose, Sandalphon leaning in close as he deposited it with I'll temper. His arm brushed Aziraphale's, a slow, uncomfortable drag of wool on silk. 

Aziraphale sunk further into his chair. 

"We need a masquerade," Gabriel said. "A proper event, we will invite the Duke, I know exactly the man who will have access to him. Sandy, have the cook come to my office, and summon the modiste and the taylor as well. Aziraphale, you will look fabulous."

Aziraphale gazed at his kippers. They gazed back, glassy eyed and split open. 

Aziraphale could sympathise. 

The salon at Golden Square was done up like a classical temple. Or at least, the fanciful type of classical temple that was all trailing flowers, wine fountains and breasts. 

On his dais, Aziraphale had both the fortune to spot the interlopers first, and the misfortune of not being able to do anything about it. Gabriel had surpassed himself with the impracticality of the evening's costumes. Even if Aziraphale could stop singing, and had the authority needed to usher out the bawd of a rival house and their favoured mollies, he'd never be able to get down from the dais and cross the floor while draped in about 20 feet of finest white wool or without unbalancing the diadem currently giving him neck ache. 

Still, at least he had clothes, which was more than could be said for the five young ladies currently freezing their unmentionables off as part of the tableau by the buffet. 

This was not going to end well. 

Gabriel hadn't yet noticed Lord Beelzebub and their mollies, posing between the doric columns, their dark clothes an offensive contrast to the room’s creams and whites. 

Where was Sandalphon? Had he just let Lord Beelzebub waltz straight in?

Gabriel was still trying to entice the newly elevated Duke Godalming into Aziraphale's bed and was unlikely to deviate from his course without intervention. 

After much shifting and hand fluttering, Aziraphale managed to catch his eye. 

Gabriel frowned, completely flummoxed by whatever idiocy Aziraphale was harping on about this time. 

_The culls don't pay you for a critique of Shakespeare, sunshine._

_No, they pay_ **_you_ ** _._

That backchat had only led to a demonstration of what Aziraphale's mouth was actually considered good for. 

The Lord and their boys were starting to disperse now. Aziraphale tried to convey the urgency of the situation without dropping notes all over the place. Seated just below him, Uriel glowered over the top of her harp. 

Gabriel, finally exasperated by Aziraphale's fidgeting, excused himself from His Grace and, stomping angrily towards the dais, caught sight of the threat. 

He spun on his toes and made a hasty advance toward Lord Beelzebub. 

They were waiting for him, hip pushed out and riding crop slapping their calf. A smile like all the sins of hell combined. 

His Grace looked at Gabriel's retreating back, then Aziraphale. He smiled, as though sharing a joke Aziraphale had no hope of understanding, and went off to eat grapes and admire the poor girls who had been holding position for at least twenty-minutes now. 

Gabriel engaged with the enemy. Voices were raised. The murmur of conversation, and the occasional coquettish giggle, began to fade as people found the verbal sparring in the doorway more entertaining than flirtations. 

The riding crop smacked Gabriel's shoulder. He tried to snatch it. 

"This is not going to end well."

Aziraphale's eyes went straight to the man who stood just below the dais. Red hair sculpted into a smooth bun on the crown of his head, accentuating his long nose and blade-sharp cheekbones. 

Crowley. Of course. 

Alive with terrified anticipation, Aziraphale's gaze dropped lower, sweeping over exposed neck, and a wide expanse of shoulder and waxed chest. Good Lord! The man was wearing a muslin. A red so dark it was almost black, with sheer sleeves clinging to his arms. It swept all the way to the floor, but the front of the skirt had been cut away to reveal long legs in tight black trousers, just a tease of stomach above the waistband. 

Aziraphale drank the sight down, until Crowley caught him gawping. His wink was lascivious.

"Not so bad yourself, ducks. You got drawers on under that toga?" 

Aziraphale nearly choked on an F sharp. Cheeks burning, he turned away, only to find His Grace looking at him with more interest than he'd shown all night. His Grace popped a grape in his mouth and, lifting his eyebrows, looked at Crowley. 

Oh dear. 

Still, at least he hadn't yet been drawn towards the fray by the door. 

"Think it'll come to blows?" Crowley mused, preening under His Grace's attention, the shameless harlot. 

Crowley smiled up at Aziraphale, slightly too much rouge on his lips, slightly too much kohl aroundhis eyes. Irritatingly, that did not stop his skin from glowing in the candlelight. 

Aziraphale looked back at Gabriel because it would not do at all to be caught conversing with his rival. 

Not that technically he was supposed to consider Crowley as a rival. The inhabitants of Golden Square considered themselves incomparables. And hadn't Aziraphale started his career as the lover of the Marquise of Eastgate? (Not that this was something the marquise would allow anyone to publicise.)

Aziraphale was not an idiot though. He'd seen Crowley tempting his way through the gambling dens and parties of the _demi-monde_.

Aziraphale glowered at Crowley as much as he could while extolling the virtues of love and virtue in Italian. 

Crowley smirked. 

Lord Beelzebub shrieked an obscenity so loudly Uriel missed a note, then another, and the song tumbled into chaos. 

"Little help?" Crowley held out his hand. The situation by the door really was becoming fraught. People would start to leave. The Duke would leave, and then Gabriel would not be happy. 

If Gabriel was not happy no one would be. 

"I'm trying to help," Crowley said impatiently. 

Aziraphale took Crowley's offered hand. Crowley swept his skirts back and climbed onto the dais. 

"You know the _Knight and the Nun?"_

"A country ballard?" Aziraphale whispered. 

Uriel looked equally affronted. 

"I'll let you be the knight," Crowley said magnanimously, and began to sing. 

It was a sweetly sad song, haunting. The alto part edging into mezzo-soprano, but Aziraphale had heard Crowley sing before. He had stopped dead for a full minute, eyes closed, drowning in the swell of his voice. It was as though Crowley were reaching up to Heaven with each note. 

It wasn't exactly the atmosphere Gabriel was going for. But then a brawl in a gin shop wasn't either.

Uriel folded her arms. She would not risk herself by accompanying them. 

Crowley's gaze twitched to Aziraphale as he approached the chorus. 

People were already starting to drift back into the room, teased by Crowley's enchanting voice. His Grace looked enamoured. If the song stopped now they'd be lost. If Aziraphale joined in, well, he would have to hope Gabriel saw the sense of it. 

Aziraphale threw his voice into the chorus, and noted the relief that rushed lightning quick over Crowley's face before he hid it away. 

When Aziraphale's baritone slid in next to Crowley's lifting it up to the ceiling, even Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub hushed.

Aziraphale didn't dare look at them too closely. He looked at Crowley and Crowley looked back while they sang of their love and the pain of separation. He indulged himself in their loss and when the last round of the chorus died away, the Duke led the smattering of applause that filled the silence. 

Aziraphale offered Crowley his hand again, and Crowley swept himself into the most outrageously deep curtesy. Aziraphale's bow was much more modest. Partly because he had class, but mostly he didn't want the diadem to pitch off his head and land in the punch. 

And then they had to get down from the dais and really face the music. 

It would not end well. 

Gabriel's smile looked like rigour mortis had set in. Lord Beelzebub glowered like a small, black raincloud. Aziraphale put his hands behind his back, a safeguard against the urge to lace his fingers with Crowley's and hold on tight as their respective employers bore down on them. 

"A pleasure working with you," Crowley murmured. 

"Likewise," Aziraphale said, and meant it. He'd always wondered what it would be like to talk to Crowley, beyond of course the barbed insults two professionals were allowed to indulge in. 

Then there was nothing more to be done. 

Gabriel opened his mouth to make his displeasure known. 

The Duke touched Gabriel's arm, halting him in mid stampede. Lord Beelzebub released the punishing grip they'd got on Crowley's arm. They slapped on something that, on anyone else would have been welcome, but on Beelzebub looked like broken china was being eaten. 

Crowley and Aziraphale stayed fixed to the spot, exchanging a faint lift of eyebrows, both knowing instinctively that good fortune shouldn't always be trusted. 

The Duke smiled, but that didn't settle Aziraphale's nerves. It was a private smile, one that cloaked his eyes and made you wonder exactly what it was that he found so amusing. 

"Quite the entertainment," he said. "Who are this extraordinary pair of creatures?" 

What followed was the excruciating embarrassment of both Crowley and Aziraphale being introduced by different people at once. 

Aziraphale made a good show of being charmed rather than nauseated, and of course Crowley put on that performance of a curtsey again. Aziraphale caught himself wondering if an introduction to His Grace was what the wiley thing had been planning with his superficially good deed all along. 

"Have fun tonight?" B threw themselves back into their arm chair, legs spread aggressively, and glared hard. 

"It worked, didn't it? I got an introduction." Crowley lowered his glasses to meet the glare head on. Best never to show fear. Unless, of course, that was what the customer was paying for. Speaking of fear, he'd slipped his glasses on as soon as they'd got into B's office. 

_You have such beautiful eyes_ the Devil had said. _They can hide nothing from me._

"Did it?" B smacked their crop against the undeserving chair a few times. "His Grace spent as much time with Gabriel's little angel as he did with you, and as much looking at the doxies. I'm wondering if our information as to his tastes is accurate."

It was part of B's job to help the Devil collect whispers on the deviances of the _ton_ , and then exploit them. The Devil had a hunger that was primarily sated by power. Everyone in the house in Piccadilly was employed to feed it. 

Crowley leaned back against the wall, gazing into the shadowed corners. "He could like both. Men and women?" Crowley did. Both and everything in between, and he was sure that B was more flexible than they let people realise. 

"His Grace needs to like _you_ , Crowley." B leaned forward, elbows resting on their knees. It was almost imploring. "He needs to choose you above all others. With patronage like that we will have definitely arrived in this city. Our employer will have access and information on one of the greatest rulers of this country."

"And you will have beaten Gabriel." Crowley's lip curling proactively. It was a special kind of hate Gabriel and B shared for each other. The kind that flamed so pure and hot, if approached from the right direction it almost looked like… Not love, because all B's more delicate emotions had been ripped out of them long ago, and the only person Gabriel could hold in affection was himself, but lust. Definitely lust. Crowley could taste it a mile off through smoke and promenade and the scent of cheap wine. 

Lust made him think of Aziraphale, and the leather thongs of his sandals digging into the meat of his well shaped calves. The curve of his shoulder where the wool was starting to slip. 

"Crowley!" B slapped her crop on the chair again. 

"Sorry?" Crowley shook his head, amazed to find himself in this dark, slightly damp room and not being born up to heaven by an angel. 

"Fifty guineas," B repeated. "I mean to beat the Archangel to the sum of fifty guineas. Not quite as satisfying as beating him with this." They flexed the riding crop. "But still."

Crowley whistled through his teeth. It was a vulgar trick he'd learned in Covent Garden, but was the only thing that could adequately express his astonishment. 

"Can you afford to lose that much?" 

"You can't afford for me to lose that much." The riding crop was jabbed in Crowley's direction. "You can't afford to lose at all. If our employer doesn't get what he wants it will be your fault."

Crowley swallowed. There wasn't much worse than having the Devil's love, but his hate came very close. He didn't blame B for being willing to sacrifice him to it. They had the scars from their employer's attentions too. 

"I'd best get my beauty sleep then."

B bared her teeth in the semblance of a smile. "You'd better."

Crowley sneered in response and dragged himself back to his room. Sparse, but clean and warm. He'd been forced to work worse jobs until the Devil had found him. He got on his knees and eased up the loose floorboard under the bed. On his stomach he twisted his arm so he could reach into the gap and hook out the bag. The coins that he tipped into his lap were never as many as he hoped, which was ridiculous, because it wasn't like they'd breed when he wasn't looking. Crowley got up and fetched the ones hidden in the skirting board, and in the curtains as well. They gleamed dully in the dark, each one a familiar quantity beneath his fingers as he sorted, counted, re counted, the figures running back and forth through his head. 

This pile would nearly get him to Scotland. 

Not far enough. 

He needed water between him and the Devil. 

He needed a whole continent to get lost in. 

He needed money to keep running when he got there. 

Crowley began to redistribute the money between the bags.

He thought of Aziraphale, and whether he had his own exit strategy. His own meagre hoard that was never quite enough. Whether he was excited about the challenge of playing for a Duke or if, like Crowley, the gloss of it was wearing thin. 

Crowley rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. He needed more money. 

He needed a better plan. 

He needed _help._

"Aziraphale. A moment."

He'd nearly made it. Just a few more steps to the end of the upper corridor and he would have been in his room. Not that he had a bolt to slide, and Sandalphon had the only key to the lock, but it was still a door to close, however frail the illusion of safety was. 

"Gabriel." Aziraphale smiled as he turned. "This evening went well."

"You think so?" 

The gentle lift of eyebrows, the surprised, yet patient tone, it all set Aziraphale's stomach dancing. He tried not to tug on the cord of his dressing gown. 

"I think it was on the verge of disaster. Come in here." Gabriel stood back, holding the door open and gesturing impatiently. 

Aziraphale stepped through, trying not to jump as the door closed behind him. 

Gabriel's office was exquisite. He'd a multitude of candles burning and the flames shone in the glass and polished wood making the room feel vast and empty. 

Aziraphale always felt quite lost in the middle of it. Quite alone. 

"His Grace was most attentive," Aziraphale tried. "Very promising, I thought."

"I thought he spent half the night with Beelzebub's snake of a whore, and you never got him upstairs."

"The snake?" For a moment Aziraphale was transported to a fantasy land where he got to choose who he fucked. And he chose Crowley. A Crowley who was willing. 

"The Duke. Try and concentrate." Gabriel crouched down, unlocking the cast iron chest behind his desk. 

"His Grace was enjoying the company downstairs. The young ladies in the tableau especia…" 

"His Grace is exactly the sort of person whose favour we need to have, Aziraphale." Gabriel said over the clink of coins, the crack of the lid closing. "In our business you can never have too many friends in high places, and that hellcat, Beelzebub is not a person I even wish to acknowledge as a competitor. Am I clear?" Gabriel came back to the front of his desk, slipping the key into his pocket. 

Aziraphale nodded. The sooner Gabriel and Beelzebub ended up on their backs together, the sooner everyone else could relax. 

Gabriel would never though. The only force capable of checking his lust was his pride. 

Beelzebub would have to beg him. 

That would never happen. 

"Are we clear?" Gabriel's voice had dropped. Just a hint of honest menace cutting through his veneer of affability. 

Oh dear. Beelzebub would never beg. Aziraphale would. Very prettily, he’d been told.

"Yes, Gabriel. Crystal."

"Excellent. Now, I've had a trying evening, and seeing as you've failed to to secure any culls tonight…" Gabriel rested both hands on the desk behind him and glanced pointedly at the rug. "Down you go."

Aziraphale swallowed. He hung in the moment where the desire to refuse weighed equally with the inevitability of his acquiescence. 

Then it tipped. He was going to do this. Again. And he was going to do it well because Gabriel didn't share his favourite with his other employees, and as long as Aziraphale was favoured, Sandalphon wouldn't touch him. 

He made himself smile. "Of course," he said, and sank to his knees. 


	2. Scorched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes up with a plan. Aziraphale runs away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Thanks again to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap)  
> for betaing and supporting.
> 
> As a guide,  
> FRIG: To have sex with
> 
> HARRIETTE WILSON: very famous courtesan. Lover of the Duke of Wellington and other politicians. Wrote her scandalous memoirs as a retirement plan, and essentially said to everyone "pay me or I'll publish."
> 
> EXQUISITE: a man excessively concerned about appearance, clothes, and grooming. Usually synonymous with dandy or coxcomb. Typically negative connotations, often satired, about a man being fussy or effeminate. As it also means beautiful and delicate, I love it as a way to describe Crowley in Aziraphale's pov. 
> 
> GARRICK: David Garrick, actor and theatre manager. Creator of the character Mr. Fribble, a character that satirised male effeminacy. 
> 
> Please see end notes for specific CW, thank you.

**_And I've been a fool and I've been blind_ **

**_I can never leave the past behind_ **

Florence and the Machine

Miss Device's scandalous soirees were always one of the  _ demi-monde's _ most anticipated events. She had risen so cleverly, and so fast, it was rumoured witchcraft had been involved. 

This rumour came chiefly from Harriette Wilson who always had a weather eye out for her competition. 

Added to this was that Miss Device had the good luck to have secured herself a keeper who was not only completely entranced by her, but indulged her interests and was open minded enough to consider them as his own. 

Crowley's opinion was that Lord Pulsifer was heady on the freedom of finally coming into his inheritance and had gone feral as a result. 

Not that he'd blame him. 

Crowley was quite ready to go feral himself. Every time a group entered the ballroom he twitched. He was supposed to be looking for the Duke. He was desperate to see Aziraphale. 

It was a forlorn hope, perhaps, but more hope than he'd been able to cultivate for a very long time. 

He and Aziraphale were rivals, obviously. Same client base, same product, more or less, employers who hated each other so much the sexual tension between them was enough to blow up a building. 

But what was a rival except an equal you weren't allowed to get drunk with? The only other person in the miserable underbelly of the city that probably understood the pressures you faced?

Plus, he was gorgeous. 

And there he was. Hovering just behind Gabriel's shoulder while he bent over Miss Device's hand. 

Crowley's attention followed the artfully styled pale curls as they moved through the crowd. His less than gentlemanly mind managed to think of sea-change eyes and strong thighs. A waist thickening just beyond the limits of accepted attractiveness. Age would do that. Not to Crowley though. He starved himself religiously to safeguard against it, but he did enjoy something to squeeze in a bed mate. 

"Damn it." B fixed herself to Crowley's shoulder. "When did the fucking angels get here?" 

B's intention had been that by arriving unfashionably early they'd have time to procure His Grace without competition. They had not counted on His Grace being the most fashionable member of the ton, and therefore destined to arrive at, probably, the time everyone else had given up hope and called for their carriages. 

"We'll just have to make sure we move first when His Grace does arrive," Crowley sipped his wine and shamelessly tried to catch Aziraphale's eye. 

Aziraphale willfully ignored him. 

Crowley was nothing though, if not persistent. 

Golden Square had been the first time they'd spoken properly. It hadn't felt like it, given the conversations Crowley had been having with Aziraphale in his head since he'd first seen him, half undone and flushed from love making. He had called Crowley,  _ my dear  _ as he'd slipped past him on the back stairs of a gambling den with his coat and cravat tucked beneath his arm. 

A palm encircling Crowley's waist and an  _ excuse me, my dear.  _

Then nothing but the soft click of heels descending in the gloom and the lingering scent of bergamot. 

Crowley had been gone on him from the first, although he was only just starting to dare give the emotion a name, lest holding the glimmer of it too close to the light would overwhelm it. 

There was an old world innocence to Aziraphale, something that even Gabriel's ridiculous costuming couldn't dampen. 

Tonight, Aziraphale looked about a hundred years out of date. And the stockings! Pink! Laughable, except Crowley knew he would do unspeakable things for the chance to kneel at Aziraphale's feet and peel them off him. Then he'd do unspeakable things to Aziraphale from the toes upwards.

He shivered. 

"You'd better not be feeling nervous," B growled in his ear. 

Crowley licked at his canines. "Enhances my performance."

"Good." B grabbed Crowley's shoulders and began steering him through the crowd to where His Grace had just entered. 

Across the room, Gabriel was carrying out a similar manoeuvre with Aziraphale. He was still holding a small bunch of grapes, mouth open in shock. 

Blissfully unaware of the chaos about to descend on him, His Grace flirted with his host and hostess. Miss Device laughed and Lord Pulsifer blushed prettily. 

Gabriel and B were racing each other now. Crowley finally managed to catch Aziraphale's eye and saw his own apprehension reflected back at him. 

This was not going to end well. 

"Please tell me that confection of a costume didn't go on your indenture."

Crowley's voice was dry, but not cruel. He was quite the welcome addition to the cool patch of moonlight Aziraphale had stolen for himself out on the ball room's balcony. 

Aziraphale's pulse jumped against his throat. He turned round slowly, leaning back with his elbows on the balustrade, wine glass hanging casually from his hand. 

He brushed at the embroidery on his collar. "What? This old thing?"

"Old would be right. They weren't even wearing that when the French peasants revolted." Crowley lounged against the door frame, legs crossed and his own glass gripped by the rim, dangling down by his side. The dreadful poser. 

Aziraphale gave him a very obvious once over. "Good lord," he sighed, looking away. Then back. Just a peek. Crowley looked positively understated this evening, but his coat was still wine-dark and his trousers still skin tight. And there was nothing conventional about his hair, and there never could be. Tonight it was woven into a twisted braid that hung over his shoulder. Hearts-blood red in the candlelight. The things Aziraphale could do with that hair. 

"Shouldn't you be working?" Aziraphale asked primly. He ignored the desire to unravel Crowley's braid, and then the rest of him. 

"Shouldn't you?" Crowley pushed himself upright and sauntered over, swaying his hips to quite an unnecessary degree. He was going to put his back out if he carried on like that.

Aziraphale enjoyed the show while he could. He sighed, with just a hint of drama. "His Grace is proving quite elusive, and when he does put in an appearance Gabriel is so intense he scurries off again. Honestly, I feel like a debutante with an out of control mama." 

"He's made a bet with Beelzebub." Crowley replied with all the relish such a titbit of gossip deserved. 

"He did what?" Aziraphale was shocked, but unfortunately not surprised. This was no doubt Gabriel's preferred method of seducing Beelzebub. The man had the subtlety of a shovel. 

Crowley grinned, his teeth a slash of mischief in the half-light. He propped his own elbows on the balustrade, but facing forward and bending over more than strictly necessary in order to give a rather nice display of his pert arse. 

It took all Aziraphale's training not to roll his eyes. 

"He and Beelzebub made a wager. On us. Which one of us would succeed with the Duke. Fifty guineas." Crowley sipped his wine. 

Aziraphale did not allow himself to express the full depth of his outrage at that amount. That would have been lewd. Instead, he gulped down a good portion of his own wine and, after a cautious peek at the partially open doorway, he turned ninety degrees so he was balanced on one arm, facing Crowley's profile. 

"Well, my dear, I hope they won't be too disappointed in you when you lose."

Crowley barked out a laugh. 

They both glanced at the door again. The strings continued to play, the candlelight continued to flicker, and no one burst forth to drag them both away by their ears. 

As Crowley turned back round, their eyes met. Wordlessly they left the balustrade and relocated further into the shadows of the balcony's foliage. And wasn't that just deliciously illicit? Crowley cloaked in shadow, imprisoning Aziraphale against a solid wall, his scent close enough to fill Aziraphale's lungs. Aziraphale's blood thrummed. He pressed back against the stone work, but Crowley ignored the hint and didn't come any closer. 

The plants surrounding them looked practically prehistoric. Large shiny leaves and thick stems. Crowley's long fingers pushed a leaf downwards, and he peered back at the doorway, lips pressed tight together. 

"Doesn't sound like you're giving me much competition, angel." Crowley released the plant, which flicked back up into place, ruffling itself indignantly. 

Crowley smirked and Aziraphale resisted the urge to run the pad of his thumb over the edge of that wicked mouth. 

"He's not exactly been fawning exclusively over you either, my dear." Aziraphale settled against the wall and sipped his wine. "If anything he's been spending most of the night talking to existing couples. Miss Device and her beau especially."

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. The beginnings of an excited little smile curled the edge of his lips. 

It left Aziraphale rather distracted so when Crowley spoke again he had to take an extra moment to process. 

"He only asked to be introduced to us when we were together," Crowley repeated when asked. 

"And the couples haven't followed any obvious pattern. His interest has been fairly broad," Aziraphale murmured back, mulling the thought back and forth as he gazed into his wine glass. 

Crowley leaned in a fraction closer, his palm resting on the wall just above Aziraphale's ear and his delight now unchecked. "What about seeing if His Grace wants both of us. Together?"

Aziraphale's thoughts bounded free like horses who'd slipped their traces. It was useless to pursue them, they were gone, and all that was left in his head was Crowley. Naked. Red hair fanned out on white cotton. Kohl-edged eyes wide, cheeks flushed… 

Aziraphale snorted, most inelegantly. It was a reaction to cover up the sheer inconvenient  _ want _ growing in him. 

He  _ had _ tried not to be drawn to Crowley. Tried to ignore the growing spark that had ignited when he'd bumped into him on the back stairs of that gambling den. A meeting of eyes, a smile shared. A promise exchanged. Even though it was one neither of them were free to make. 

And now, here he was, grinning like a boy on Christmas morning offering himself to Aziraphale like it wouldn’t start an inferno in his blood. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale breathed, still pressed against the wall, gazing up at Crowley's shadowed eyes. 

"Didn't you learn how to make a man feel special?" Crowley's smile broadened, he dipped his head a fraction closer so his breath tickled Aziraphale's ear. "I did."

This time Aziraphale did indulge in an eye roll. He pushed Crowley back far enough so he could duck under his arm and put some space between them. "Gabriel would never condone it." Aziraphale found his wine glass empty. That was disappointing. He put it down on the edge of an urn and adjusted his cravat. "And Lord Beelzebub wouldn't either. Not if they both really have concocted this silly bet."

"The stakes aren't silly." Crowley nearly growled it. 

That was quite the change of tone. It made the night feel darker, the ghost of the music from inside further away. "It is quite a sum, granted."

"What happens to you if you lose?" Crowley persisted, stalking forward. 

"I won't," Aziraphale said firmly. It was unthinkable. Yet here he was, hiding in the garden, regrouping. Not worrying. No. Not really. Not yet. 

"Humour me." Crowley's mouth was tight, his sarcasm weary as he circled around Aziraphale's shoulder, affording himself a view of the ballroom door. "Let's imagine, just for a moment, that you are not the unmatched prize that you think you are, and His Grace just might fancy something with a little more style and a bit less frump."

"You beast!" Aziraphale made himself laugh, but it sounded thin and worried. 

"Humour me." Crowley's face became a touch more fond, but no less frustrated. 

"Gabriel would be very unhappy."  _ Very _ unhappy. Possibly let Sandalphon play-with-his-toy unhappy. Aziraphale worried at a button on his coat. 

"Poor him." Crowley sounded very much like Gabriel could go and frig himself. 

"You don't want him in a mood with you, let me tell you." Aziraphale would be disgraced. No longer favoured. "Fuck."

"Quite. And let's say my lot don't just send rude notes either," Crowley muttered. He turned back from watching the ballroom. 

"I'm sorry, Crowley but I don't see…" It was impossible. One of them had to lose. An arrangement was insurmountably dangerous. If either side found out… 

"We go to His Grace. We offer him both of us. Together. We expect payment direct to us." Crowley stepped forward. 

Aziraphale retreated and found himself with his back against the wall again. 

"Crowley…" They were too close, hemmed in on all sides by the planting and the house. Aziraphale couldn't think. 

And yet he didn't want to run either. He wanted to lean into Crowley and see how hot this fragile thing between them could burn. 

"We don't tell our bosses, is what I'm saying," Crowley soothed, his voice a midnight caress in Aziraphale's ear. Aziraphale's eyes searched Crowley's, desperate for a sign that this might work. He wanted it to, but his fear was ravenous. 

"How much are you worth, what would you get to keep without giving Gabriel a cut?" Crowley continued, oh so enticingly. So reasonably. 

"I'm not telling you that. It's crass to ask." Aziraphale's own voice shook. And the truth was he didn't know how much he was worth, how much Gabriel kept. 

They were so close, the moonlight was barely able to slip between their lips. 

"Fine. Then just keep the figure in your head, and, I don't know, add twenty per cent." Crowley's words tumbled over each other. "Once in a lifetime opportunity. Risk we're taking on his behalf. Whatever. How far could you run on that. Where could you end up?" His voice was eager almost pleading. 

Aziraphale had never dared think. There'd been a time, when he was younger, he'd fancied trying to get home. Just back to St James', back to Tracy. 

He'd never made it. Better that he hadn't. Bad enough that he'd been punished without bringing Gabriel's wrath via Sandalphon down on her too. Aziraphale's hand reflexively touched the now short hair at his nape. 

"You cannot be serious…." It was a fantasy. Nothing more. Could not be allowed to be anything more. 

Crowley stepped back and gave Aziraphale a lazy once over. "Getting a bit of a paunch there," he said slyly. "Eyes a bit too crinkly. Not quite as flexible as you were. Lucky with that hair though, bet you'll hardly see the greys when they come through." He paused, with all the flair of Garrick and then accused, "Unless they have already?" 

Aziraphale was more hurt by the teasing than he cared to admit. "You are a fiend. I'm only twenty-one!" 

Crowley scoffed. 

"Twenty-three," Aziraphale conceded. 

"You're at least twenty-five," Crowley snapped at him. 

Aziraphale gasped. He was twenty-seven in September, or thereabouts. He'd always found a flexible approach to both age and parentage most beneficial. 

"And you're mad if you think anyone but you is planning for your retirement. You think Gabriel's going to keep you around for old time's sake." Crowley glanced back at the ballroom door again. He bit his lip. 

"No. I don't think that. But I have savings. I'm not an idiot." He wasn't. Although the stocking under his mattress was depressingly light. His ambitions were nothing more than  _ get me away.  _

"Not saying you are." Crowley shrugged. "Neither am I, and I want to get out. Go to France where they don't care if I like cock or not. Maybe travel down to Venice where anything goes. Work a bit more, for myself, while I can. Then, I dunno. Cottage in the country maybe. Grow things."

Aziraphale tried to imagine the slick exquisite in front of him, sleeves rolled up brow damp with sweat. Shirt too. A fetching image, but improbable. 

"It's too dangerous. What if they come after us?" 

Sandalphon would be sent after them. 

"You think we're that valuable?" Crowley said. "You think you are?" 

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the memory. A shoe lost on the stairs, and stockinged toes trying to clutch at the rug. His throat was raw and the wooden floor grazed against his bare back where his shirt had ridden up. The pain in his head as Sandalphon dragged him down the ever shrinking corridor by his hair and back to Gabriel's office. 

Gabriel's weary,  _ Bring him in, Sandy, and we'll see what can be done with him.  _

Aziraphale knew he was older now. Stronger. Not so easily manhandled. Deep inside himself that boy wouldn't listen to reason. 

"We'll run fast. Once we're over the channel we're gone." Crowley's touch was gentle. A featherlight caress on his wrist. 

Aziraphale shrugged him roughly off. "No. Not another word."

Gabriel's anger was always silent, but brutal, sharp. Endless. 

"Right." Crowley withdrew, defeated. 

"Right." Aziraphale pushed past Crowley and hurried away before he was betrayed by the tears forming. Before Aziraphale admitted how desperate he was to say yes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Crowley mentions not eating to stay thin - not specified as an eating disorder but could be read that way.  
> Threats of sexual violence.  
> References to the fact that Aziraphale is being manipulated (specifically over money he's owed by Gabriel)  
> Period typical violence and implied Gabriel/Aziraphale non con in a flash back.


	3. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale agrees to Crowley's plan. Now they have to get the Duke to agree too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. I really appreciate all your comments and kudos on this fic. 
> 
> Special thanks to [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) for the beta and encouragement. 
> 
> If I had one night out in Regency London I would go to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. A really useful series of blog posts can be found   
> [here](https://www.regencyhistory.net/2019/03/vauxhall-gardens-finding-your-way-around.html)  
> I have taken liberties with the layout though.
> 
> I would not go to Whites which is an exclusive gentleman's club on St James' Street. 
> 
> Check the end notes for CW if you're concerned.

**_And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't_ **

**_So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road_ **

Florence and the Machine

“Aziraphale, a moment.”

Again, so close. Aziraphale masked his disappointment and turned to face Gabriel. “Gabriel, how pleasant to see you.”

It wasn't pleasant, it was a complete nightmare. Aziraphale was in the business of selling illusion though, and he was good enough that Gabriel appeared to buy his smile. 

Or just didn't care. 

Frown creasing his handsome brow, Gabriel gestured Aziraphale into his office. Aziraphale went, trying his best to keep his fingers still and his face controlled.

The door clicked ominously shut. 

“Not a successful evening by all accounts.” Gabriel folded his arms. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought Miss Device put on a wonderful… "

Gabriel had a particular look that he employed now to great effect. It was half disappointment, half frustration and all Shut-up-Aziraphale. 

Perversely, it only ever made Aziraphale want to talk more. 

"His Grace and I had some delightful conversations,” Aziraphale whispered around the stone lodged in his throat. He tried not to think of  _ other  _ conversations he might have had during the evening. 

_ What about seeing if His Grace wants both of us. Together?  _

That slight sibilant hiss against his ear, the scent of skin-warmed mint and burned sage that Crowley wore. 

“Conversations are not what he will pay us for," Gabriel perched on the edge of his desk arms still folded. 

Aziraphale made himself focus. “No, but one doesn’t like to feel that they’re wanted only for their money.”

“Aziraphale, I’m starting to wonder if this is more than you can handle.”

_ A bit of a paunch, _ Crowley had said,  _ crinkly around the eyes _ . Aziraphale lost the battle with his hands and they jumped to tug on his waistcoat. 

Gabriel glared and Aziraphale put them behind his back again. 

“And you disappeared for quite a stretch of the evening too.”

"Did I?" 

That look again. This time with a subtle undercurrent of anger tensing Gabriel's jaw. 

“I was, er, scoping out the competition,” Aziraphale admitted. 

“You let me worry about the competition," Gabriel said darkly. 

“Oh?”

Gabriel’s smile was supposed to be reassuring, no doubt, but there was something of the well manicured shark in it. “Of course, if you make headway with His Grace, I won’t need to have Sandalphon resort to such underhand measures, will I?”

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale swallowed. Gabriel wouldn't attack Crowley, would he? Lord Beelzebub had their own henchmen, and the protection of the Devil, and everyone knew what a well connected, powerful terror he was. 

Damaging Crowley would start a war. 

"Gabriel…" 

Aziraphale did very much not want Crowley damaged. 

“You are going to make headway, aren’t you, Aziraphale?" Gabriel rose from the desk and walked into Aziraphale's space. "Be honest, because if you feel you can’t I’m sure I can find another boy who would like a chance to shine.”

“I really think that I’m close to making headway, breaking through. He’s shy, that’s all. Needs just a bit more coaxing, gentle handling. Urm.” It took all Aziraphale's control not to step back. It would only give Gabriel a reason to stop him.  _ He likes couples,  _ Aziraphale nearly said. Then pushed the thought away. 

Always best to keep some things back. And if he kept talking he'd have to say how he knew, and then he'd betray Crowley. 

“Perfect. I want to see progress. I want him sending me notes to finalise your rates by the end of the week.” Gabriel withdrew, rubbing his hands together. 

“Of course. Yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, let oxygen back to his lungs. Just a few more minutes and this would all be over. A familiar dance. He didn't even have to think about it. Didn't have to feel it. 

He opened his eyes at the scrape of a chair. Gabriel had sat down behind the desk and opened a ledger. 

"Urm?" Aziraphale asked. 

Gabriel looked him over. “You’re still here, Aziraphale.”

“I am." He was. He didn't need to be. It made Aziraphale giddy with relief. "Sorry. I’ll just…” He slipped from the room. When the door was closed, Aziraphale took a moment to close his eyes again. Was his escape a good thing or not? Aziraphale's hands wandered back to his waist. He was aware that he was aging, and that his body was responding accordingly, but he’d never been a willow and Gabriel could sell innocence. Aziraphale's expressive eyes and round cheeks, his plump lips and clever mouth, had always been of more concern than anything else. 

"That didn't take long." 

Aziraphale jumped, his eyes snapping open.

Sandalphon had come up the stairs, and was now blocking the way back down. His eyes wandered over Aziraphale appraisingly.

"Everyone is tired.” Aziraphale edged back towards his room. (Not that it mattered. There wasn’t a way to lock it. Sandalphon had the key.)

"I'm not. Takes a lot to wear me out." Sandalphon stepped forward, smiling. This was in no way encouraging. 

Aziraphale edged away. 

“Well, Gabriel was. I am. If you’ll excuse me.” Aziraphale walked briskly to his room and shut the door, leaning his weight against it. Sandalphon’s measured footsteps made the floorboards creak as he approached. They stopped. Azirphale pressed his weight more firmly against his door and bit his lip. His door. His room. His. He screwed his eyes up tight. 

“Maybe another time then.” Sandalphon’s voice was close to the wood, the roughness of it only just muffled. 

Aziraphale bit down harder, refusing to make a sound. He tasted blood. 

The floorboards creaked as Sandalphon walked on.

After what felt like a year, Aziraphale persuaded his stiff muscles to move. He dragged his blankets from the bed and, wrapping himself up, lay down with his back pressed firmly to the door.

He would win the affection of His Grace, and it would be fine. If His Grace liked him enough he might even set him up in his own house like Eastgate had. One with lots of doors that Aziraphale could lock whenever he liked. 

Except what if he couldn't close the deal? And if he did win, what would become of Crowley?

Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens left Crowley with stars in his eyes every single time. It didn't matter how often he attended, or that his presence added tarnish to the beauty of it, he briefly became a child again in a world that was more wonder than disappointment. He went to see the dancing beneath the multi-storey bandstand and admire the acrobats. The additional air of danger and mystery added by the masks appealed to Crowley as well. He slipped through the crowds like a dashing Byronic hero, if only in his own head, keeping watch for pale hair and hoping the owner of said hair might be interested in getting swept off his feet. Crowley wouldn't apologise to Aziraphale, nothing to apologise for, but maybe they could contrive to watch the fireworks together. A peace offering at least. 

That was, of course, if Aziraphale ever turned up. It was not fashionable to fret, but Aziraphale's absence from the entertainment had left Crowley concerned that their  _ tete-a-tete _ the night before had got him into trouble. 

Crowley tried to keep the Duke’s interest, he really did, but every minute that slid past fuelled his concern.

Fortunately Miss Device was all sparkling wit and cleavage. On her arm, Lord Pulsifer managed to hold up his end of the banter by being an adorably besotted puppy. 

The Duke was quite taken with both of them. 

Crowley was trying very hard to care. 

After an excruciating few hours Crowley withdrew tactically to find extraordinary amounts of alcohol and resign himself to a future of the Devil’s wrath. 

At least with the Devil you knew what he was. Gabriel seemed a more slippery beast and Aziraphale was clearly terrified of him.

Crowley set out to find the angel. 

Crowley's heart lifted when he finally caught sight of him scurrying down the path from the supper boxes. Aziraphale's mask was trimmed with white feathers that fluttered about alarmingly with the haste of his movement. He paused at a crossroad, bouncing on tip toes to scan the crowd. 

If he was finally looking for the Duke he was out of luck. 

His Grace had flittered off towards the Dark Walks, alone, of all things! 

Not that His Grace probably had much to fear, but what was the point of going into that shadowy den of iniquity without someone to get iniquitous with? And if he’d gone in there specifically to look for someone then why not just ask Crowley? Who had more or less offered that exact thing not ten minutes ago?

Crowley raised his hand, waving lazily, and masking his relief by lounging against a tree. 

Aziraphale spotted him. He ran forwards, feathers all a tremble, as he glanced back over his shoulder. 

"What are you supposed to be?" Aziraphale asked by way of greeting. 

"Snake." Crowley gestured to the glittering glass and paste on his mask. "Scales aren't they? What are you? A pigeon?" 

"A dove!" Aziraphale cried in an outrage so obviously heartfelt that Crowley wanted to laugh. 

“Well, where have you been all evening, dove? You’ve been losing ground with His Grace," Crowley drawled. 

"By all accounts Miss Device has ousted us both!" Aziraphale snapped. He was distracted, jumpy, still glancing back down the path. 

"It's early." Crowley shrugged. Early by the standards of the  _ ton _ anyway, which meant it was not quite midnight. "Are you… Look, is something wrong?" 

Aziraphale made a noise far too close to a sob for Crowley's liking. He seized Crowley's arm with a strength that made his stomach flip and corralled him into the shadows of one of the pavilions. It was like being savaged by a sugar-paste centerpiece.

"I've spoken to Pulsifer," Aziraphale said urgently. "The helpful boy introduced me to some of the Duke's friend's from Eton. They didn't take much persuading to talk, thank goodness." Aziraphale made a face like he'd tasted something unpleasant. 

Which he very probably had, if Crowley knew anything about public school boys. Their sexual preferences were usually novelty and power over anything else. 

"Much persuading?" Crowley asked, torn between anger on Aziraphale's behalf, pride over his commitment, and downright jealousy. 

Aziraphale waved the concern away. "We were right, Crowley. His Grace likes couples because he likes to  _ watch." _

"Oh!" That was good. Wasn't that good? Crowley was finding it rather hard to think beyond the hand Aziraphale still had on his arm. 

Aziraphale glanced behind his shoulder. "Look, if we  _ are  _ going to do this, we will have to run as far as we can. We'll need more money." His nails dug into Crowley's forearms. 

This was an interesting and not unwelcome change of direction. 

Especially considering all the  _ wes  _ in that sentence. "How much more do you think His Grace will be prepared to pay?" Crowley asked.

"I mean, I know where Gabriel keeps his money. I can get to it." Aziraphale whispered. The lower part of his face was all resolve hardened by terror. His eyes desperate through the holes of his mask. 

A very definite change of direction. 

"What happened? Are you hurt?" Crowley gripped Aziraphale's forearms back. It was unsettling seeing him so openly shaken. 

"No, I'm not hurt.” Aziraphale gently disentangled himself and frowned. “But if you win then I will be.” He sighed. “And if I win then you will be. And honestly I can't seem to decide which is worse."

"Oh me getting hurt, definitely." Crowley grinned. He knew it looked sickly, but he had to try. 

Aziraphale shot him a disparaging look that was all impatient pout and huffiness. Crowley wanted to kiss him. They were going to do this. It was going to work. He could almost taste the freshness of freedom on his tongue.

"His Grace went this way.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm again. "The Dark Walks."

“Shouldn’t we discuss…” Aziraphale gasped as he was dragged along. 

“After. Who knows who he could come across in there. Best we get to him first.”

"I suppose while Gabriel is at supper…" Another worried glance, another nibble of his lip. 

"Perfect timing then," Crowley said gently. 

Although as they approached the arched entrance to the Walks they both instinctively slowed down, drew further apart. 

While two young bucks sloping off to find amusement could be indulged, they were clearly  _ not  _ two young bucks. And the sort of thing people would presume they were about to indulge in was illegal. It would get them in the pillory at least. 

Although Crowley, having witnessed that particular form of justice, thought he'd be tempted to prefer the noose.

"Walk on," Crowley said. "Give it a few minutes and then double back."

Aziraphale gave him a curt nod and hurried off in the other direction. 

Crowley stepped into the cool shadows of the high hedges that were less walks and more mazes to trap the unwary. Either into wedlock or ruin. 

The air grew closer and heavier as the revelry behind him faded. He turned a corner and stopped, peering back towards the entrance. 

“Persistent, aren’t you.”

Crowley was not foolish enough to scream. He bit down on his shock which made it worse as a pathetic little whimper slid past his teeth. 

“Hush,” said His Grace. “You’ll put his lordship off his stroke.”

There were indeed some amourous noises discernible over the distant strains of a waltz. Crowley turned his head to look past the Duke and caught sight of a flash of pale buttocks in the gloom. “Is that…”

“Pulsifer and Miss Device. Yes. But don’t worry, they know I’m here.”

“I wasn’t worried," Crowley whispered. Aziraphale had been right. It took all sorts to make the world, and the money, go around, after all. 

If anything, Crowley was impressed Pulsifer had it in him. Or in Miss Device, anyway. 

“Were you not?" His Grace murmured in a way that was neither disappointed, or impressed, but simply was. "Ah!" his voice got brighter. "This evening has just improved. Is he coming to meet you?”

Aziraphale ducked into the Walks with all the furtive guilt of a sinner arriving late to mass. 

“We were both coming to meet  _ you _ ,” Crowley muttered, adding a rather reluctant, “Your Grace.”

He reminded himself that he didn’t have to like the Duke, just endure him. He could do that if the price was right. And it would be. 

“Then the evening has taken a turn for the intriguing. Let’s go and rescue your beau and let his lordship finish in peace.”

“He’s not my beau," Crowley said automatically. 

“That is a pity.” His Grace stepped past Crowley leading him away from his lordship, who was starting to sound quite desperate, and intercepting Aziraphale who, when being set upon in the dark by two men made a noise almost as pathetic as the one Crowley had. He nearly punched Crowley in the face. 

His Grace took this all in his stride and led them to a particularly shady grove with a bench and an apple tree. He turned to face them, eyes and teeth glinting in the dark. He put Crowley in mind of nothing so much as a patient predator. The type who could wait all day for something unsuspecting and innocent to amble over their lair. 

Crowley hated feeling like a baby deer. He ground his molars and tried to keep his uncertainty to himself. 

"Gentlemen, you wished to speak with me." His Grace flicked out his coat tails and sat. He left no room on the bench for company. 

Exposed standing in the glade, Crowley and Aziraphale drew closer together. 

“We would like to make you an offer, Your Grace," Crowley said. “Given that we don’t think our respective employers are appreciating the nuances of your tastes.”

“Oh?” His Grace tilted his head and brushed lint from his knee. 

“We’ve decided to work together,” Crowley continued, mouth dry. “We will work together for you. If that’s something you would find amenable?”

“Ah.” His Grace exhaled softly. The softest hint of a smile curled his lip. "Then you have my attention gentlemen."

Crowley had never found getting what he wanted so thoroughly disconcerting. 

Aziraphale pressed tight to Crowley's side. It was reassuring, but the grip Aziraphale had on his hand was punishing. 

“I believe I would be quite amenable," the Duke promoted them. "I take it, however, that there would be conditions?” 

“You negotiate with us. You pay us.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand back. He did not care for the way the Duke's attention lingered on that. 

This would work though. And if it didn't His Grace would merely send them on their way. He'd have nothing to gain by telling tales. Still, the silence was not a comfortable one. The Duke's consideration, even in the dark, especially in the dark, was terrifying. 

“I see," he said eventually. "And how much?”

Crowley stated their price. Aziraphale gasped. His own fault. If he'd just admitted to what his fee was Crowley wouldn't have needed to be quite so creative. 

“That is quite the sum.” His Grace sounded amused more than anything. 

“Aziraphale was the lover of the Marquis of Eastgate until he died fighting Napoleon. And me, well, I have a wealth of experience in my field.” Crowley hated how his voice wobbled. He hated how powerful men could still make him feel so inconsequential, like so much emptiness, especially when they had done nothing to deserve it but be born in the right bed. 

That had been the Devil's luck too. And a bed the Devil had made him well acquainted with. He didn't know how long he'd been kept there, but by the end his nerves were shot. 

B had fed him brandy and just held him. They'd sung lullabies for fuck's sake. Crowley pushed the memories away. He wasn't going back there. His Grace would pay. He had to. Yet the silence pooled around them, growing by the second. 

"No one else will be made this offer." Aziraphale's voice was calm, deceptively strong but his grip on Crowley’s hand remained punishingly tight. "We are only bringing it to you now, because I think you can appreciate the simplicity of it. Dealing with Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub is tiring, and they are too entrenched in their own feud to truly consider what anyone else might want."

The Duke looked between them, and then at their clasped hands again. “Ah. I believe I understand. A once in a lifetime performance only.” There was a smile in the Duke's voice. That did not make it sound kinder. 

“Exactly, Your Grace.” Aziraphale inclined his head. 

“Will there be any previews?”

With hindsight they really should have considered that sooner. Crowley turned to Aziraphale, glad of the dark and the mask hiding the flush he knew was crawling over his cheeks. Why, in all his planning, had he not considered that he would actually have to touch Aziraphale? Love Aziraphale?

The air turned heady and sharp.

“Show me," His Grace said. It wasn’t a request. 

Crowley reached out his hand, fingers tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s jaw. 

It was like floating, a dream out of time, to have imagined something so often that the actual getting of it seemed impossible. Aziraphale's lips parted and Crowley kissed him before he lost his nerve. The noses of their masks clicked together. Crowley fell into the kiss with a sigh thoroughly unprepared for how much sweetness he still found within himself to give. It was cautious too, so soft. A brush of lips, a gliding back and forth. 

Aziraphale whimpered, a strangled, despairing sound. He froze. 

Crowley was not supposed to kiss like this, not outside the safety of Aziraphale's own imaginings. It made Aziraphale remember the first time he'd been kissed, and the swell of hope that had accompanied it.

Dangerous that, but Aziraphale knew it was a drug for him. That promise of love, even when you didn’t trust it, even when you knew it must be a lie. He froze, terrified of the want flickering to life inside him. He gave, but he didn't want for himself. Didn't dare. 

Crowley pulled back a fraction, knuckles tracing just below the bottom edge of Aziraphale's mask. 

He didn't speak, but his eyes held nothing but concern. 

The care in Crowley's expression, what Aziraphale could see of it, made it worse. That promise of affection burned inside Aziraphale like wildfire. 

The Duke was watching. 

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s waist, tentatively, urging him just a touch closer. Their lips touched again and Crowley flowed into him, hands gripping the padding on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Prepared now, Aziraphale kissed him hard. A whore's kiss, all lies and tongue, because that was what Aziraphale was, what he deserved and he'd do well to remember it. 

The bulge of Crowley's growing arousal pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh. His own was obvious, rubbing Crowley’s stomach. 

This was safer. Just bodies. Just parts. 

Still, the want sparked through them. Aziraphale's own cresting desire reflected back at him in the way Crowley melted in his arms, pliant and willing. Aziraphale pulled off his own mask, dropping it to the ground, as he pressed forward into the kiss. The anxiety of the night before fading as he gripped Crowley harder. Their mouths were lewd, hungry. It was a performance after all, and the Duke was watching. Aziraphale needed to remember that. His palms swept over Crowley’s shoulders. He gripped the back of Crowley's knee, lifting up his leg and dipping him backwards. He was so light, so flexible. The positions Aziraphale would be able to bend him into set his blood aflame. He got a hand in Crowley’s hair, that beautiful silky mass of fire, and worked out enough pins so that it tumbled between Aziraphale’s fingers, hanging down dramatically as they dipped further. Crowley took the hint, leaning into Aziraphale’s grip, head back and neck exposed. Aziraphale licked his way along Crowley’s throat, feeling his pulse jump. Consummate professional that Crowley was, he was already looking at His Grace, moaning before Aziraphale even made use of his teeth. 

“Don't enjoy yourselves too much,” His Grace said wryly. “Or I will wonder why I’m being required to pay you at all.”

Did he sound just a touch breathless though? Just a little bit less enigmatic than normal?

They came apart awkwardly, their fingers lingering on each other's arms before they were forced to put space back between them. Crowley's mask had been pushed off centre and he tugged it over his head, running a hand through his curls to settle them. 

He glanced at Aziraphale, an eyebrow raised.  _ OK?  _

Aziraphale nodded.  _ You?  _ He mouthed back. 

Crowley winked, his grin was quick and happy. 

His Grace made them wait though. Not long, but long enough. 

“I am available Friday evening. From ten. I expect you to provide a discrete room of a suitable standard. Send me the details. I will pay you the agreed amount afterwards.” He bowed and walked away. 

They stood alone in the dark, the breeze stirring the leaves of the apple tree, spreading its scent through the grove. 

An appreciative cry went up from the distant crowd as someone performed a worthy stunt on the high wire. 

“He didn’t even haggle,” Crowley breathed, staring at the shadows the Duke had vanished into. 

Aziraphale exhaled. He was wound up too tight, cock twitching with confusion about where Crowley’s body had got to. “Friday. That’s two days. Can we get a room in two days?”

“No idea. I didn’t actually dare believe he’d say yes.”

“Crowley! This was your idea!” Aziraphale turned on him. Anger was a welcome distraction from wanting to drag him against the apple tree and continue their sport. Kiss the sin from that tempting mouth like it was the juice of Eve's apple. Swallow it all down and make it his own. 

Oh, this would not end well. 

“You gave me every cause to believe you weren’t going to help," Crowley snapped, fingers absently braiding his hair back into some kind of order. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale tried to marshal his thoughts. “I know someone who may be able to provide a room. I take it you don’t have to work mornings?” 

Crowley shook his head.

“Meet me tomorrow morning at eight outside Whites."

"Please tell me you aren't posh enough to book a room in Whites."

“Meet me tomorrow and find out." Aziraphale managed a flirtatious little wiggle. "Now I really must get back."

The joy faded from the world at the thought of that. He really had been gone too long though. Aziraphale snatched up his mask, finding several of Crowley's hair pins in the process. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley said as he accepted the pins back. 

Aziraphale looked up into those eyes that were really too tender for their line of work. His fingers brushed Crowley's open palm. 

It was an intimacy that was so much more potent than what they'd just done together. 

"Yes, my dear." Aziraphale made himself push away the thought of how he would face Gabriel with Crowley's scent on his clothes, the taste of him in his mouth. 

Crowley's throat flexed as he swallowed. 

The skin there was delicate, sensitive. Aziraphale wanted to explore exactly how much pleasure he could give Crowley just by kissing his neck. 

"Mind how you go." Crowley stepped away, fingers closing around the hair pins. 

And that care was more painful than the memory of a kiss still burning up Aziraphale's heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Nothing overtly sexual or violent, but Sandalphon is quite threatening and Aziraphale is quite scared and upset afterwards.  
> Some consensual voyeurism (The Duke briefly seen watching Anathema and Newt)  
> Brief mention of non con Crowley/Lucifer in a flash back. Nothing explicit.   
> First of the mild dub con in that the Duke asks Aziraphale and Crowley to kiss and Aziraphale is not prepared for how he reacts emotionally to that.   
> [tawnyontumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tawnyontumblr) if you have more questions.


	4. Combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get prepared for Friday and the Duke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) you are amazing. Thank you for all your help. 
> 
> MACARONI: Slang for an effeminate man. Can denote gay, but also a man who loves women too ardently as well. 
> 
> BEAU BRUMMELL: A Regency man of fashion and influencer. 
> 
> Aziraphale's line "If we are going to call how I look, what I am, a crime, it's not one that produces any misery in society, is it?" Is a misquote of writing by JEREMY BENTHAM, philosopher and social reformer, against the way men accused of sodomy were treated. Aziraphale wouldn't have actually read this as it was published until after Bentham's death.
> 
> Specific Content Warnings at the end.

In the dreary light of a London morning Aziraphale looked practically normal. Still in enough beiges and creams to make Beau Brummell faint, but at least the style was approaching modern. Crowley tried not to miss the temptingly tuggable lace. 

“You still look like a macaroni,” Crowley said as he approached. 

“Well, I suppose I rather am. At least I’m honest about it.” 

Crowley was glad of his glasses shielding his eyes. The way Aziraphale pulled himself up taller as he owned what he was made something in Crowley squirm with fear and pride. 

Not that Crowley was subtle. His hair was wound up under his hat, but all his clothes were cut too tight, the reds and blacks too rich. Even the protection of his glasses hinted at his otherness. “It doesn’t always pay to advertise," Crowley muttered, watching the people on the street. 

Aziraphale sniffed as he adjusted his cuffs. "If we are going to call how I look, what I am, a crime, it's not one that produces any misery in society, is it?"

"That rather depends on whether or not any passers by take offense? Strikes me you'd be pretty miserable if someone threw mud at your coat." Crowley grumbled as he glanced up at the foreboding edifice looming above them. “We aren’t really going in Whites, are we?”

“I’m flattered you think I could fly that high. Aziraphale pursed his lips. "No, my dear, just down here a way.” Aziraphale pointed with his walking stick and set off down the street, turning into one of the narrower roads where Crowley was more at ease. The houses here were still fine, but with windows often blacked out. They were a pretty face hiding a wealth of sin, much how Crowley felt, to be honest. 

Azirapahle rapped on the door of one smart looking house with the window shutters firmly closed and then stepped back. “I do hope it’s not too early,” he murmured. Which didn’t bode well.

After a few minutes, and a second knocking, movement was heard from within and the door opened to reveal a handsome older woman in a robe embroidered with birds and flowers in enough colours to give Crowley a headache. Her angry glare immediately softened when she saw Aziraphale. 

This boded much better.

“You’re about early, love.” Her smile was sleepy and welcoming. She stepped forward and went on her toes to pull Aziraphale into a hug. She held him back at arm's length and performed a very thorough inventory of him. "How are you?" 

There was a weight to that, an unspoken sorrow that made Crowley's heart contract. 

“I find myself rather in need of a favour, Tracy," Aziraphale said. 

“Come in then. And your...friend.” Her eyebrows were drawn on, but that just made them sharper, more observant. 

“This is Crowley. He’s not a cull.”

"No, I know who he is."

Tracy gave him an assessing stare. It was hard to tell if she found him acceptable company for her boy or not. 

Because Aziraphale was Tracy's boy. And if she _wasn't_ his mother she was obviously the closest thing to one that he'd ever known. 

Crowley made up his mind to like her and ensure she liked him. 

Tracy led them down a fashionable if somewhat gaudy hall-way. It was as exotic as her robe, a hurly-burly of classic and fantastic Gothic flourishes, with every armour helmet, candlestick and fantastic tapestry clamouring for space. 

“We need a room, Tracy, the best you have, for Friday night. All of Friday night. We can pay you for it. Half now, if you would be so kind, and half after we’ve been paid," Aziraphale said unhurried, but with urgency 

“We’ve?” Tracy cast a look back at Crowley. “Taken to procurement, have you, love? He's not yours to sell, surely?" 

“Not at all!" Aziraphale was outraged. "We will both be working. Together. It’s an arrangement.”

“And you can’t use Golden Square because…?” Tracy spoke as though she'd opened up an unfamiliar book and was skimming through the lines. “Ah. Never mind, the less I know the less I can be made to tell. Come upstairs. I’ll show you what we have.”

The room she took them to was a good one. Probably not exactly what His Grace was used to, but fine enough if somewhat dramatic with its excess of drapery and mirrors. Still, if all went well the Duke wouldn’t be looking at the decor. 

Crowley flexed his fingers, eyes sweeping over Aziraphale's back as he inspected the room. Crowley had seen him in all sorts of states of undress. He'd watched him work a room, charm culls, and seen him after. 

_Excuse me, my dear._

Crowley's waist still carried the memory of that touch. The bright eyes and flushed lips have nested in his heart. 

He'd often imagined what Aziraphale might look like doing the act itself. It struck Crowley he would now get to find out. He would get to touch, and taste and hear. His knees shook. 

Aziraphale glanced at him, head tilted in question. 

Crowley was going to combust. 

Even if it was all fakery like the kiss at Vauxhall. 

Crowly nodded. The room was fine. Crowley was not. 

Aziraphale set to discussing the price with Tracy and then counting out the fee. “Could we, test it, so to speak? Now?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley nearly choked. 

"So we know where everything is," Aziraphale clarified, giving Crowley a venomous look. 

Tracy glanced between them. Her inked brows lifting slightly. “No one else will use it until this evening.” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you up to, love? Are you in trouble?”

“I hope very much to be getting myself out of trouble, actually.” Aziraphale's smile was too bright. 

“Is this about that Duke?” Tracy looked at Crowley again. Her face broke into a grin. “Oh, I see! Clever boys.” She cupped Aziraphale’s face gently. “I’ll miss you.”

“Tracy…” He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. 

“Shhh. Less I know, remember. And don't worry about me. If the archangel _fucking_ Gabriel comes knocking, my sergeant will blow him to Kingdom Come. Him and his attack dog."

Aziraphale nodded. "Alright then."

"But do stop by my office on Friday, before you set up, alright?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“There’s wine on the sideboard over there. It’s early, but the two of you look like you could use it. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll send the maids back in.” She winked. 

The way it made Aziraphale splutter was adorable. Or would have been if Crowley wasn't unravelling inside. 

"Wait, Tracy. One more thing." Aziraphale touched her arm and whispered in her ear. 

She frowned, looking up at him with real fear. "Oh, love, are you sure?" 

Aziraphale nodded, a stubborn pout to his bottom lip. 

Tracy sighed. "I'll have it ready for when you leave." She cupped his face again. Her lips parted and she shook her head. "Come find me later."

She threw a look at Crowley that was gratitude and concern, and probably a warning to treat her boy right, and then left, shutting the door quietly. 

“Alone at last,” Crowley said. He really needed that wine. 

  
  


The room was opulent, and being what it was, dominated by a gaudy four poster bed with luxurious curtains and an unseemly amount of cushions. There was also an unnecessary amount of mirrors. Aziraphale tried not to look at Crowley's reflection in any of them as he pulled off his shoes and bounced on the bed, testing the creak of it.

Aziraphale poured the wine carefully. He was always careful, measured, but today, with Crowley lounging on the bed sheets, one knee bent, foot resting on the mattress, Aziraphale knew he had to be especially on his guard. 

The kiss at Vauxhall had shaken him. He couldn't let himself get carried away on one moment of softness. Couldn't think it anymore than Crowley being cautious with a new partner. 

“Easier for us that His Grace likes to watch,” Crowley said.

“Oh?” Aziraphale scraped the edge of the decanter on the rim of the glass. He kept his face impassive as he offered one of the drinks to Crowley.

“Less body parts to arrange.” Crowley grinned, one of the provocative, wicked ones, that Aziraphale was starting to believe meant he was really nervous. 

“How do you imagine this will work then?” Aziraphale asked, his voice sounding like it was at the bottom of a deep well, given the blood pounding in his ears. The idea of having another body between them had been a safety net. Without that reassurance, his limbs were weak. 

Crowley roused himself into something vaguely resembling vertical. “We fuck, he pays.” He raised the glass to his lips smirking around the rim. “I thought you’d done this before?”

Aziraphale smiled tightly. “No, I meant the configuration. I’m presuming you want to go as far as we both feel comfortable.”

Crowley swung both his feet back onto the floor. “Do you want to top?”

There was a frisson of tension in that, but the good kind. The excited kind. Aziraphale didn’t make it obvious that he’d noticed, but his own nerves tingled. 

“I wouldn't mind,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I’ve always found it pleasurable, just, as you can imagine, there’s not much call for that particular skill.”

“Skill, is it? Never seemed like it takes much skill to me,” Crowley said. 

“Well, I give you liberty to review your opinion when I’m done with you.” 

Crowley’s cheeks darkened. He licked wine from the corner of his lip and glanced away. Oh, that was interesting.

“Anything you don't like?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Waking up.” Crowley dropped back on that insolent elbow of his. "Spiders."

“I meant while working,” Aziraphale said with the patience of an angel.

“When has that ever mattered?”

“It matters to _me_.” He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but really, this was Crowley’s idea and he wasn’t even taking it seriously. "I mean, I don't want to ruin this because you haven't told me you’re ticklish or something daft."

“If you're behind me,” Crowley said quietly, attention in his wine glass. “And I can't see you, let me know what's happening. Make it dirty talk, part of the show. That's fine, just keep me aware.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley drank, more looking as uncomfortable as Aziraphale had ever seen him. 

“Don't pull my hair.” Aziraphale’s hand fluttered up to the edge of his waistcoat. He tried to check the fidget, but Crowley caught it. “I mean touch, tease, scratch my scalp if the mood takes you, but don't grab and pull. And please don’t kiss me again.” He didn’t think he could stand it. He'd be a ruin of ash, grey and desperate. 

Crowley’s gaze swept over him, cautious but determined. Those glasses really didn't hide as much as he thought they did. “Do you want to practise then?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale nearly broke his glass stem. “Do you need practise? I thought you had a wealth of experience in your field?”

“I do, but yesterday, that started off awkward, didn’t it? I thought if we practised we’d both know what to expect on the night, so to speak.” He sipped his wine, dark lenses on Aziraphale. 

And Crowley wasn’t wrong. It made sense, and yet the thought of it sent Aziraphale’s emotions into a tumult. He was at the bottom of that well again, the walls of it painted with his imaginings of what Crowley would look like, what he would feel and sound like. He’d been preparing himself to have that and had thought he could keep at least some objectivity with the Duke in the room. Being with Crowley with no one to please but themselves felt like a dangerous gift, too great a temptation to pass up, despite the pain it could cause him later. 

Aziraphale had always been greedy for pleasure though. A weakness that had contributed to him leading this life to start with. 

“Well, shall we get on then?” Aziraphale smiled brightly over his beating heart. He put down his glass, twisting slightly to reach the side board. When he turned back Crowley was already on his feet, silent in his stockings, and nearly on top of him. Aziraphale stepped back, hand going behind him to grip the wood.

Crowley stopped, their noses nearly brushed. “Let’s.”

His breath ghosted over Aziraphale’s lips. His hands rose and he slipped his glasses off. No liner underneath today, just naked honey-gold. 

Aziraphale inhaled sharply as Crowley reached past him, putting his glasses down next to the wine glass. 

Next, he pinched the end of Aziraphale’s cravat, unknotting it slowly. When it was loose, he stepped in closer still and undid the collar stud, knuckles brushing Aziraphale’s throat. 

The room was very quiet. Distant sounds of the street were drowned out by good, strong walls and their ragged breathing, amplified in the miniscule distance between them. Crowley's scent was mellowed by the heat of his skin, enveloping Aziraphale and making his head light. A lock of hair fell over Crowley’s forehead to tickle the arch of his eyebrow. Aziraphale pushed the curl back. 

Crowley glanced up from his work, teeth pressing his bottom lip.

Aziraphale could have devoured him just by looking. The onset of wrinkles at the very corners of his eyes, the too-sharp off centre canines. The crook to his nose. 

"Beautiful." The word was a phantom. Aziraphale only knew he'd dared give it voice when Crowley's cheeks coloured. His lips parted in surprise, tantalisingly close. Crowley's gaze dropped to Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale was ready to break then, to lean in and savour another taste of those warm, gentle kisses. 

Crowley withdrew a few steps, unfastening his own cravat. 

Aziraphale's hands trembled on his waistcoat. The motions familiar, the act in his near future normally equal parts mortifying and mundane. He couldn't remember the last time real desire had played any part in it, the last time looking alone had made him ache. He never looked, at least not when the deal had been made. Before, yes, he'd collect all he could of its fragments. Would the client be kind? Cruel? What might he like? And what might spark fury? When the bedroom door closed though there was nothing to be done but endure. He didn't look, didn't do much of anything that wasn't required. 

The kiss in Vauxhall had burned through the numbness though, taken him back to a moment when he'd enjoyed his work, enjoyed sex. Crowley had slithered beneath his skin, leaving glimmers of heat in his veins.

Crowley reached down for his shirt hem and wiggled his hips a bit as he pulled it over his head, ribs lifting and stomach stretching. His head was back, long throat exposed. Was the mark of Aziraphale's teeth still on that delicate skin? Did Crowley still imagine he felt it? 

Crowley stripped the shirt sleeves from his arms. His hair was ruffled now, eyes bright with anticipation. Chest smooth as marble, but it would be warm to the touch. A strong heart to beat against Aziraphale's palm. 

"Like what you see?" Crowley's lip curled, too much brashness slapped on over anxiousness. 

Aziraphale paused, his own shirt half untucked. "You know I do."

"Girl likes to be told sometimes." Crowley came forward slowly, shirt slipping from his fingers as his hips swayed. 

This time Aziraphale did roll his eyes. Crowley grinned, a flash of wicked pleasure. He dipped his hands beneath the hem of Aziraphale's shirt, palms resting on Aziraphale's stomach. The cotton pooled around Crowley's wrists as his hands slid over Aziraphale's skin. Aziraphale leaned into it, commiting the delicacy of it to memory.

"Help me out a little?" Crowley whispered. 

Jogged from his stupor, Aziraphale lifted his arms. Crowley's chest brushed his, dragging slightly as he reached up to pull Aziraphale's shirt all the way off. He gripped Aziraphale's arms, keeping them above his head, sliding his fingers down to knead his triceps, working slowly back to his chest. 

"Fucking look at you," Crowley murmured. "You could break me in half."

Aziraphale touched his jaw, trailed teasing fingers down his neck. "You could bear it."

Crowley's smirk didn't quite hide the sweetness in him this time. "Oh, I could. Don’t you worry."

Aziraphale dragged a thumb across Crowley's bottom lip, pressing into his mouth. Crowley’s tongue flicked out to taste. His hand palming Aziraphale's waist, as though to steady himself. 

Aziraphale needed that anchor too. He was adrift, all rules, all boundaries he'd put faith in to protect himself crumbling. 

He pressed his forehead to Crowley's, fingers digging into that blade sharp hip and his thumb enveloped in Crowley's hot mouth. 

They'd kissed in Vauxhall, hadn't they? 

For a cull. 

As a show. 

But the damage was done. Aziraphale wanted. _Needed_ more. 

Their noses touched. 

Aziraphale leaned in a fraction closer. He didn't know whether to laugh or weep when Crowley pulled away. 

Business, this was business. And because it was business Crowley nearly ripped off his trousers in his haste to get to the crux of the matter. 

His skin was shrinking, nerves standing out and quivering, exposed and raw. 

They'd kissed in Vauxhall. 

This wasn't the same. It would not be the same if they kissed now. 

And Aziraphale had said no. 

Crowley needed Aziraphale to trust him. 

This was business. 

Crowley stepped back to the bed, stroking his already aching cock nice and slow, drawing out each molecule of pleasure. 

It may be business, but that didn't mean a good time couldn't be had by all. Those were the best tricks, after all. And it had been a long time since he’d sold his virtue for the price of a pint of wine and a penny custard. He knew how to enjoy it now. Was going to damn well enjoy every single moment of this. 

Aziraphale took off his own trousers, a hand on the sideboard for balance. 

Crowley's fantasies of kneeling at his feet came back with a vengeance. He wanted his hands on those calves, his mouth on those thighs and around that lovely cock. 

Aziraphale mirrored Crowley, taking himself in hand, those delectable arm muscles of his tensing as he worked himself just as carefully. Crowley was shameless in his appreciation of that. Aziraphale was big, and why was Crowley surprised? Not that he was tall, but he was solid, a very definite presence. And his cock was thick and just the right length to fill Crowley up. His body clenched at the thought. His breath caught. 

"Like what you see?" Aziraphale spread his legs a bit, his smile joyful and teasing. It was a good look on him. 

"Oh, you know I do," Crowley grinned. 

"Girl likes to be told sometimes." And he batted his lashes, which made Crowley laugh. 

Damned if he could remember the last time that had happened when he was naked. Oh, this was not going to end well, not with Aziraphale smiling back at him so pleased. 

"Turn around." Crowley's voice was hoarse. "Let me see all of you."

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow, that bastard smile of his getting stronger, but he did as he was bid. Crowley sucked on the inside of his cheek to stifle his groan. 

"I could get on my knees and bite that arse of yours." It came out as a growl. "Dig my nails into those magnificent thighs."

Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder. And this time Crowley's groan did escape. 

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" 

Aziraphale had tried to sound snarky, but he was too breathless, his cheeks too flushed. 

Crowley nearly stumbled in his haste to get on the bed. "I will be." 

He snatched the bottle of oil he'd put on the bedside table and positioned himself, pillow beneath his hips and legs stretched wide. "Shall we get on?" 

"Please." Aziraphale stayed standing by the side of the bed. This looked terribly unfair to his poor cock which was flushed red, precom beading on its tip. He casually swiped it away with his thumb, pushing his hips into his fist as he fucked himself with long, deep thrusts. 

Fine. Crowley could play that game. He settled with an arm behind his head, his free hand going on a journey down his body, slick fingers teasing his nipple to tautness, splaying over his stomach. 

Aziraphale's eyes widened, the tendons in his neck standing out. He shifted position for a better view. Crowley dipped between his legs, finger brushing his own hole. 

It was good knowing he could take his time knowing Aziraphale wouldn't rush him.

Crowley arched, eyes closed, mouth open, as he breached himself, the tip of his finger reaching straight to where he wanted it. 

"Feels good," he purred. "Wish it was you."

The mattress creaked. "Then allow me, please."

Aziraphale settled between Crowley's thighs. Crowley stretched both arms above his head, lifting his hips as Aziraphale's oiled middle -finger pushed against him, inside him. 

He exhaled long and slow.

Aziraphale's own breath was short. 

Crowley's body clenched, a whine spilling from his throat.

"Can you come? Just like this?" The pressure of Aziraphale’s finger didn’t let up.

"Sometimes. Depends. Not with someone else for a long time." Words were hard now, his tongue a thick, cumbersome thing. 

Aziraphale nodded. He caressed Crowley's thigh with his clean hand, finger of the other continuing to work inside him. "Tell me. Please."

"Last time was you." Had Crowley meant to say that? He'd wanted to. Blissed out on the deliciousness of a touch this considerate was unspooling his thoughts. 

Aziraphale's voice broke a bit, "I'm certain I'd remember if we'd done this before."

Crowley shook his head, his focus unwinding. 

"The masquerade at the Red Lion Club last season. You were all in those ridiculous angel robes." 

"We did look ridiculous."

There had been miniature harps. Halos on wires, bobbing about. Crowley's laugh turned to moans as Aziraphale increased the pressure. Crowley nearly shot off the bed. 

"You always look ridiculous. Easy access though," Crowley gasped. "Wanted to tempt you away from the crowds, get on my knees, push those ridiculous robes up to your waist…" 

He whimpered as Aziraphale's finger withdrew. The sound of the oil bottle clicking back on the bedside table made his whole body tremble. 

"I'd have let you," Aziraphale whispered as he lined himself with Crowley's entrance. "Knotted your hair around my fists, taken whatever that sweet mouth of yours offered…" 

Their eyes locked as Aziraphale pushed inside him. They both lost their breath. 

Crowley fisted the sheets. Oh, this had no right to be so good. It wasn't fair. 

"More," he demanded. 

Aziraphale was very good at taking instruction. He leaned forward over Crowley, braced on one arm and hooked Crowley's leg around his waist, so high his toes touched Aziraphale's shoulder blades. He pushed. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arms, head falling back and moaning as the tip of Aziraphale’s cock brushed his prostate. Aziraphale began to move and the moment dissolved into heat. Crowley's brain melted like sugar in tea, his muscles heavy as the drag of Aziraphale's cock tugged his hips down. And God, if Aziraphale didn't make the loveliest noises. Each exhalation like a prayer of wonder. 

Crowley clutched the back of Aziraphale’s neck, drawing their faces together. Aziraphale's eyes were closed, brows furrowed. His lips parted, sighing within millimetres of Crowley's own desperate mouth. Aziraphale buried his head in the crook of Crowley's shoulder, words damp, "I won't last."

"Then don't." 

Aziraphale thrust harder. 

Crowley's cock was pressed against Aziraphale's stomach. He lifted his other leg, wrapping both around Aziraphale's waist, heels digging into his arse, driving him on. The angle gave more friction for his weeping cock, just enough to push him closer to completion. Crowley held on, body squeezing. Aziraphale’s face was inches from Crowley's, their noses bumping and mouths open. So close. 

_Kiss me_ , Crowley nearly said. _Please. I want to feel you._

Which was mad considering how beautifully Aziraphale was filling him up. Crowley scratched his nails down Aziraphale's forearms as pleasure began to prickle through him.

_You will feel me. You will remember me._

“Soon,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale's strokes lost their rhythm, the muscles in his arms shaking. He pushed his torso off the bed, arching his spine as he came.

Crowley grabbed his own cock. One pump, two and he was curling in on himself, slack lips against Aziraphale's bicep as he spilled all over both of them. He shivered through it, each gasped sob becoming another and another until he collapsed back on the bed, wrung out and raw. 

Aziraphale shook his head as though trying to clear it, still looming over him like some kind of ancient god about to carry him off. 

Crowley would not have resisted. 

Aziraphale's smile was fond, amused. Smugly breathless. "Well, fuck me."

Crowley shoved his fist in his mouth and cackled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A throw away line that implies past Crowley/Lucifer non con, possibly taken as underage if you squint. Lucifer bought him with sweets, essentially.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Past ref to Crowley/Lucifer and Beelzebub/Lucifer. Non con implied.  
> Implied threat of sexual violence from Sandalphon to Aziraphale.  
> Mis-gendering of Beelzebub (Gabriel refers to them as a hellcat)  
> End of chapter one Gabriel asks Aziraphale for a blow job. Non-consensual. Not described. Chapter finishes before it happens.  
> Canon typical mental and emotional abuse, but laid out more obviously in the last two scenes. 
> 
> A butler could earn 46 pounds in a year. 50 guineas is a lot of money.
> 
> GLIMMER. Fire CANT (1811 Dictionary in the Vulgar Tongue by Francis Grose)
> 
> MOLLY. A Miss Molly; an effeminate fellow, a sodomite.(1811 Dictionary in the Vulgar Tongue by Francis Grose)
> 
> MUSLIN: A type of fabric, but also commonly used in modern Regency Romances to describe the dress worn by young ladies made out of that fabric. 
> 
> DESHABILLE: The state of being dressed in a careless or casual style. A posh French way of saying Aziraphale is in his dressing gown. 
> 
> DEMI-MONDE: Half-world. Taken from an Alexander Dumas play in 1855, but it is an established phrase in modern Regency Romances to describe the part of society frequented by elite men and the women (and in this case other men) who entertained them. 
> 
> CULL. A man, honest or otherwise. A bob cull; a good-natured, quiet fellow. CANT. (1811 Dictionary in the Vulgar Tongue by Francis Grose) I use it in this to generically mean a male client.


End file.
